Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  “I’ve been dying to see it. Did you manage to get it out of storage for me?”

  “Yes, Claire, of course. Anything for the arts, you know.”

  Enough of this chitchat. I wanted to ask, Then where the hell is it?

  He must have read my thoughts. “It’s here in the great room. Won’t you come in, all of you?” And he backed his chair into the house.

  Without hesitation, I hustled toward the door. Grant followed, but without my sense of urgency. Kane sauntered with Grant. Pea, though still miffed, turned and brought up the rear, doubtless fearing he might miss something.

  Entering the house a few steps, I was blocked by Stewart’s wheelchair in a kitchen aisle. He was bubbling something about theater, someone he’d once met, but I wasn’t listening; I was looking about for the clock. It wasn’t in the kitchen, naturally, but the room opened at its other end to a large space for casual living, sort of a family room. I didn’t see the clock, but then, my view of the space was mostly blocked, as was the kitchen aisle where Stewart sat and prattled while riffling for something in his pony-skin saddlebag.

  The kitchen, I noted, had a dated, midcentury-modern look, which I assumed was studied and intentional rather than leftover, outmoded decorating. The old white appliances, all top-line, were of rounded, streamlined design, laden with heavy chrome hardware and fittings. Pink Formica countertops were trimmed with stainless-steel edging. Pink and gray tiles formed a checkerboard on the floor.

  Stewart gabbed nonstop as I observed all this, causing a backup in the doorway as the others entered behind me. When Kane had worked his way into the hall, Stewart’s monologue ceased as he openly ogled the young man. Cocking his head, he asked, “What did you say your name was?”

  “It’s Kane, sir.”

  Grant added, “Kane and I are now living together, Stewart.”

  From the side of his mouth, the old man told Grant, “Good for you, cupcake. Not bad. If you ever grow tired of him…” He trailed off suggestively.

  With surprising composure, Grant told him, “Never, Stewart. It’s far more likely that Kane would tire of me.”

  Kane assured Grant, “That is not gonna happen.”

  Stewart persisted, “You never know with the young ones. Right, Pea?” He sniggered merrily, but no one else found humor in the comment.

  Pea didn’t answer the question. He simply gave Grant a knowing glance, then said to anyone, “I believe you came for a clock?”

  “Yes,” I said, happy to be back on track. “It’s here?” I glanced about.

  “Here in the great room,” said Stewart, at last wheeling out of the aisle, allowing the rest of us to move.

  We followed as he rolled from the kitchen to the airy, comfortable room, less formal than the living room I’d visited on Saturday. While the appointments of the entire house seemed equally luxe, the tone of this room was friendlier, less pretentious, with furniture that invited relaxation. I noticed a computer and printer at a corner desk, messy from use. Christmas decorations were less churchy than those in the living room, and the artwork here was more modern and blithe, some of it simply propped against the walls or displayed on easels, as if it was frequently rotated from storage. Glass doors along the far wall opened to a terrace and swimming pool.

  Although there was plenty to look at, my gaze quickly settled on the Austrian pendulum clock, which I spotted near the desk. Grant’s description, while enthusiastic, had not given me an accurate mental picture of the clock, but I now understood what he had meant when calling it “a whimsical little piece with a vaguely oriental motif.” To my eye, it was a mishmash of styles, yet clearly of antique pedigree, pleasantly bizarre. Most important, it struck me as exactly the sort of cockeyed gift that Waldo Lydecker might give to an unsuspecting Laura—then hide his shotgun in it.

  “Oh, dear,” said Grant, strolling over to the clock. “I think it’s too big.”

  I came up behind him. “Nonsense. It’s wonderful. It’ll look perfect on the set.” Stepping to the clock, I ran my fingers along its painted cabinet. Opening the glass door that protected the pendulum, I was satisfied that the space within could conceal Waldo’s murder weapon.

  “I mean,” Grant explained, “I think it’s too big for the car.”

  “Oh.” I stepped back half a pace, sizing it up. It was substantially smaller than a conventional grandfather’s clock, but Grant had a point—I doubted that it would fit into the trunk of his car, and I wasn’t too sure about the backseat either.

  Grant asked Stewart, “Does the finial come off?”

  Stewart instructed his majordomo, “Try it, Pea.”

  So Pea stood on a chair near the desk, fiddled with a fanciful spindle atop the clock, and sure enough, it popped right out, reducing the height by a few inches.

  “That’s better…,” said Grant, rubbing his chin. “I still have my doubts, though. Got a tape measure?”

  Stewart and Pea searched a few drawers, carping at each other but managing to find a tape measure among some picture-hanging tools. Kane stepped forward, volunteering to measure the clock. Then he trotted outdoors to check the space available in the car. Moments later, he darted back inside. “Sorry. Not even close.”

  “Oh … shoot,” I said, minding my manners. “I had so wanted to have a finished set this afternoon.” I slumped onto the broad arm of a nearby sofa.

  Kane suggested, “Maybe we could get the school to send a truck over.”

  But it was Sunday, and discussing the logistics of various options, we realized that my chances of getting the clock to the theater in time for rehearsal were slim.

  My trouper instincts, my show-must-go-on mentality, then kicked in. “Well,” I said, standing, “it’s no disaster. Quite the contrary—the clock is marvelous. I’ll just have to wait another day to get it onstage.” Reviewing everyone’s schedules, I decided to return on Monday afternoon, sometime after lunch, with Tanner’s open Jeep. “The clock will fit easily, standing upright, and I’m sure that Tanner will be available to help.” To Grant, I added, “I’ve already wasted too much of your time.”

  He dismissed my implied apology, but conceded that his Monday schedule was already heavily booked.

  At some point during this conversation, Stewart’s nurse, Bonnie Bahr, bustled into the room and reminded her charge that he was due for medication, which, out of sheer contrariness, he resisted. Clearly, she’d had prior experience enduring his obstinacy, as well as his insults, showing the patience of a mother with a sickly child. She managed to get a variety of pills down him, watching like a warden as he gulped a glass of water.

  “There,” he said, handing her the empty glass, “are you satisfied, piglet?”

  I’d have slapped him then and there. But I wanted his clock.

  He looked up at his nurse with a sly grin. “Don’t you think I deserve a treat?”

  She crossed her beefy arms. “Like what?”

  “Pink fluff!” He started wheeling himself toward the refrigerator.

  “I told you, you old goat: there isn’t any.”

  Having heard this conversation before, I wondered about Stewart’s sudden mood swings. At one moment, he could discuss art or theater with keen insight, and the next moment, he sounded like a rude child on the verge of a tantrum. I knew of his heart condition and his stroke. Was he also bedeviled by encroaching Alzheimer’s?

  Pea spoke up to Bonnie, “How dare you address Stewart like that!”

  She blasted back, “Pipe down, you little worm.”

  “I want pink fluff,” Stewart whined, “and you said you’d get me some.” He punctuated his demand with a fart—a gaseous variant of Tourette’s, perhaps?

  “On my time off,” Bonnie reminded him. “That means tomorrow. I couldn’t get to it last night, so I’ll make a batch tonight and bring it over in the morning.”

  I was reluctant to ask, so I was relieved when Grant finally did: “What on earth is pink fluff?”

  “Stewart just loves it,” Bon
nie gushed, hand to bosom. “Nothing complicated,” she added in a whisper, as if imparting a secret recipe. “It’s red Jell-O mixed with Cool Whip.” She licked her lips.

  “A pedestrian concoction,” Pea said with a sniff.

  Bonnie turned on him, flashing daggers. “If it’s so damn easy, you might try making some for Stewart now and then.” While it seemed that Bonnie and Stewart’s sparring amounted to nothing more than gaming, it was only too apparent that the hostility between Bonnie and Pea was deep and genuine.

  While the big woman in white volleyed more insults with the little man in black, Stewart wheeled into the kitchen and planted his chair in front of the refrigerator. Reaching up, he grabbed the handle and began to tug. A collection of vintage chrome cocktail shakers displayed on top of the refrigerator wobbled and clattered as Stewart’s tugging became more insistent. Soon, he was rising from the seat of his chair.

  Seeing this, Bonnie abruptly ended her sniping with Pea—she flipped him the finger—then rushed to assist Stewart. Getting him seated again and wheeling him back a few feet, she said, “There’s no pink fluff, but let’s see what else we can find.” And she swung the door wide open.

  Stewart wheeled himself forward, examining the shelves.

  “There’s some nice, fresh melba sauce,” Bonnie told him. “That’s red, like Jell-O. Want some on ice cream?”

  Stewart shook his head. Spotting something, he shrieked, “Krispies!”

  “Oh!” Bonnie echoed his shriek. “I forgot we had these.” She handled the plate like hidden treasure, removing it from the refrigerator and setting it on the counter. “Would anyone care for a Rice Krispies square?” Stewart had already grabbed one and was gnawing away at it like a dog with a bone.

  Grant and I mumbled no-thank-yous. The silence that followed was broken only by Stewart’s crunching. Then that stopped.

  Stewart looked up from his chair, as if waking from a dream. “No takers?” he asked, sounding mature and cordial. “They’re really quite good. How about the young man? Kane, wouldn’t you like one?” Stewart lifted the plate from the counter, heaped with a pyramid of the gooey treats, and proffered it to Kane.

  Kane smiled uncertainly. “Well…, yeah. Thanks.” And he reached for one.

  “Do take two,” Stewart insisted, leaning forward in his red robe, conjuring the disparate image of a licentious elf. “They’re small. And I’m sure you need all the energy you can get.” He gave Grant a canny wink.

  Grant rolled his eyes as Kane wolfed down the first of the two bricks of cereal. He sounded as if he was eating Styrofoam. Bonnie returned the plate to the refrigerator, shutting the door with a solid thud.

  “Oh,” said Stewart, wheeling close to Grant and nabbing his arm, “I nearly forgot. I haven’t shown you my most recent acquisition, have I?”

  Grant laughed. “It’s impossible to keep up with your acquisitions, Stewart.”

  The old man led Grant back into the great room, saying how proud he was to have landed an entire collection of works by an overlooked Swedish artist. I followed with the others and couldn’t help marveling at how quickly Stewart’s behavior had been transformed after eating the Rice Krispies square. Maybe he’d needed sugar. Was he diabetic too? Bonnie, I mused, really had her hands full.

  The easels I’d noted earlier displayed the paintings, some dozen of them, all smallish landscapes, scattered about the room. The compositions were all of the same general style, pleasant and colorful, but one in particular caught my eye. Stepping nearer to scrutinize it, I saw that it depicted an old-fashioned drawbridge, a crude wooden structure at the edge of a placid stream. A few cows grazed nearby. Spectacular clouds roiled overhead in a palette suggesting sunset.

  “Isn’t it delightful?” gushed Stewart, wheeling next to me. “Such mood and vibrancy. Per-Olof Östman deserves far greater recognition. Though a minor master from the relatively obscure Swedish neo-impressionist school, his pointillist style is among the finest, most precious I’ve seen.”

  I asked, “When were these painted, Stewart?”

  “They all date from the 1890s, at the height of the neo-impressionist movement. I’m sure Östman’s work would be better known if this entire series hadn’t been in the hands of a private collector for more than a century. We tracked it down in Stockholm, and according to the certified provenance, these little masterpieces have never been publicly exhibited.”

  “Nor will they be,” Grant noted.

  Stewart’s gaze turned from the paintings to Grant. “Why do you say that?”

  With a shrug, Grant explained, “Because they’ve been acquired by another private collector. They’re all yours, Stewart, yours to enjoy.”

  “For a while, yes.”

  Grant’s expression said that he didn’t understand Stewart’s meaning. Neither did I.

  “I’m old,” Stewart reminded us. “Art endures, but I, alas, will not.”

  Bonnie rushed to his wheelchair. “Now, now, Mr. Chaffee. That’s no way to talk. You have many good years ahead of you. I’ll see to that.”

  Pea also flitted to his side, kneeling face-to-face. “Stewart, honey, don’t say such things. We’re all here for you. You have friends.”

  “And family,” I added, trying to be helpful. But in the next instant, I recalled that Stewart had commented on Saturday about “bad blood” between himself and his family.

  Stewart quickly set me straight. “I have little family left, thank God. When I went my way, they went theirs. They have never been supportive, and I have no intention of turning to them now. They can all go to hell.”

  The room fell silent. In a limited sense, I could connect with Stewart’s sentiments, as I felt highly conflicted with regard to my own familial ties, particularly my relationship with my mother, who, like Stewart, had seen her better years. Still, Stewart’s open contempt for his family was shamefully harsh. I ventured, “I’m sure you don’t mean that. There must be someone you relate to—emotionally, as well as by blood.”

  He sighed. “I had a niece, Dawn, who showed the most promise. From what I understand, she became something of an art scholar in her own right. We have that much in common, but nothing else.”

  “You ‘had’ a niece?” I asked, having found his wording ambiguous. Was Dawn dead or alive?

  He clarified, “Dawn lives in Santa Barbara, I’m told, but I haven’t seen her in nearly forty years. She was a toddler at the time.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time to reach out to her.”

  “Bah! She never once ‘reached out’ to me. Why in hell should I open a door that’s best left shut?” With a disgusted shake of his head, he wheeled away from his circle of listeners, parking himself near the kitchen, alone.

  As we murmured some comments about the sad consequences of his bitterness, I recalled that Stewart had also mentioned Santa Barbara on Saturday. He’d asked his banker’s secretary about a Monday appointment with someone from that city. Whoever he was planning to meet, it was surely not his niece.

  Sounding a brighter note, Stewart spun in his chair, telling us, “I think young Kane might enjoy another Rice Krispies square.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no, I’ve had enough.”

  Stewart leaned toward him, stretching his neck. “You’re quite sure?” I’d swear his eyes twinkled.

  “Quite sure. Thanks anyway.”

  Stewart rolled his chair toward the refrigerator, apparently deciding that he himself needed another treat, even if Kane didn’t want one.

  Pea cruised over to his master. “Really, Stewart,” he said under his breath. “Trying to lure children with candy—has it come to that?”

  “Whatever it takes!” Stewart roared with laughter. Pea joined him.

  The rest of us remained silent. Then Grant suggested, “We’d better be going.”

  Stewart asked him, “But you’re coming back tomorrow for the clock?”

  “Claire will arrange to pick it up in the afternoon, but I won’t be with her.”

>   Pea reminded him, with a testy edge to his voice, “You need to return that key. When will we have it?”

  Since I would be returning anyway, I was about to offer to bring the key with me, when Kane volunteered, “I’ll be going to campus early tomorrow. I can drop it off on my way. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

  Pea gave a curt nod; the plan apparently satisfied him.

  “How too very kind of you,” Stewart told Kane, imagining God knows what.

  We said our good-byes, moving toward the back door. Before leaving, Grant took Kane aside and playfully cautioned him, “Watch out for Stewart. I think he’s interested in you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kane replied through a grin. “If he tries anything, I ought to be able to fight him off.”

  We again exchanged a few parting pleasantries, then headed out.

  Glancing back, I saw Stewart tugging at the door of the refrigerator.

  Up above, the chrome cocktail shakers wobbled and clattered.

  5

  D. Glenn Yeats had dangled many carrots during his campaign to recruit me to his faculty at Desert Arts College. He offered a generous, steady income, complete artistic freedom, and the opportunity to help shape the next generation of American actors.

  The most appealing of Glenn’s carrots, however, the one I could simply not resist, was the theater he built for me. It was a true playhouse, as opposed to a concert hall or a musical theater, accommodating an audience of some five hundred, neither too large nor too small, with acoustics specifically designed for the spoken word. It featured a proscenium stage and seats of crimson velvet—very traditional—while at the same time employing state-of-the-art stage hydraulics and fully computerized lighting and sound systems. The building itself was designed, with my input and ultimate approval, by I. T. Dirkman, the same world-renowned architect who developed the master plan for the entire school. My theater figured prominently in the overall scheme, with its dramatic facade providing the visual focal point for College Circle, a huge public terrace at the center of campus.